by Pamela Ashton

Created on: August 29, 2009

It is cold and dark in deep December in Alaska. When you are a recently divorced single mother, just starting at a new job with just enough income to keep a roof overhead, it looks even bleaker. I struggled to juggle what little money I had to pay the rent, a babysitter, and bring some food into the house. There was never anything extra, and I wondered how in the world I would provide any semblance of the Christmas celebration to my three year old daughter.

Looking back, I realize it was more important to me that to her; she had not as yet experienced the kind of Christmas I wanted to provide for her, and would have still been her happy little self without it. I needed to be able to bring Christmas to our home; I needed the celebration, the sharing, and the joy. I couldn't see how it would happen.

We hadn't lived in Anchorage very long. After divorcing an abusive husband, I'd moved from one small Idaho town to another. My landlord there had reduced my rent in exchange for my working in their thrift store and ice cream shop, while I went to college and earned a one year certificate in business, in just six months. My next door neighbor watched over my little girl when I was in classes; the rest of the time she was with me. I took her to work with me; we shared just about every hour of the day together. When a relative offered to pay our way to move back to Alaska, I couldn't turn the opportunity down.

The hitch was that I no longer had the support system there that I did in my growing up years. My daughter and I were virtually alone, and for me, it was extremely lonely, stressful and exhausting. I got up early to take her to a day care center. It was distressing to both of us to be separated after the close bonds we'd formed in Idaho. As we trudged through the pre-dawn darkness I looked wistfully at the lighted windows of the homes we passed, wondering what the lives were like for the families that occupied them.

After dropping my little girl off, I worked at a telephone utility office through the day, leaving in the darkness of the afternoon to return home. Often, I would have put something for dinner in a small crock pot. My daughter would want Mommy to play and spend time with her, but I was often worn out, so I would lie on the couch in our tiny furnished apartment, and she would sit on my stomach and chatter to me, or read, or play with the few toys she had. When she went to bed, I did too, and we'd do it all over the next day.

The weekends provided a

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